Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. The nuns had no regard for the sensibilities of a “lady” and expected Melusine— for it was her allotted task—to clean and tend the soldier’s wounds even when they festered. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him.
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